Dead South Rising: Book 1 (46 page)

Jess glanced at David from her perch on the car’s hood. He stood at the base of the steps, propping himself with the railing. He had a wavy sway, like steam rising from a bowl of soup. He looked to be in bad shape, looked … swollen. Swollen with pain. Swollen with anger. Swollen with helplessness. And fear.

Deciding to chance the wrath of Sammy and Gills, Jessica pushed from her perch, and walked over to David. His eyes—well, his
eye
—widened with concern.

“It’s okay,” she said, her voice low. She tossed a glance behind her.

“Hey,” Sammy said, detecting her movement. “I said to stay—”

“Screw off,” she said. “I ain’t bothering you. I’m just seeing if he’s okay.”

Sammy took a few heavy steps toward Jess and David, a show of intimidation, no doubt, but then stopped, deeming her an insignificant threat. At the moment, at least. He eyed her suspiciously, then added, “You two go anywhere or try anything stupid, I’ll shoot you where you stand. Got it?”

“Whatever,” Jess said.

She turned her attention back to David. “Good god, David. Did they do this to you?” Her hand reflexively covered her mouth. She couldn’t hide the shock, the disbelief. She reached for his face.

Holding his side, David flinched at her approaching fingers, a perennial grimace on his face, and he eased himself back onto the steps, no longer able to stand. “Yeah,” he answered through a painful breath.

Kneeling, Jess studied him a moment. He looked like he’d been in a car accident. A bad one. His eye was swollen shut, a plum where one brown iris should have been. His nose was crooked, caked with blood. Half his face looked like a black and blue roadmap to nowhere, streaked with cuts and busted veins. His lips were twice their size, busted as badly as his face. And that was just his head.

“Let me see,” she said, lifting his shirt.

“Easy.”

Beneath his shirt were uncountable whelps and bruises, more cuts. It almost looked as though he’d exploded from inside out.

“Jesus,” she said, a tiny squeal in her voice. She covered her mouth again.

“You shouldn’t … have come,” he whispered, sounding like he was speaking through a mouthful of marbles.

She had to pull her hand away from her lips. “You need stitches. Probably have some broken ribs …”

“You shouldn’t have—”

“Shh. I had to. I couldn’t leave you here. Not with those two.”

He swallowed. Jess could tell it hurt him. That simple act of swallowing took everything he had.

She glanced over her shoulder, then back to David. “I’m going to get you out of here.”

David gave a doubtful look. “You’re in danger … Jess. They’re … dangerous.” He didn’t sound like himself. His voice was torn and shredded, like grass that had been mowed down to the dirt with dull blades. “You’ve got to get—”

“Randy’s here.”

“What?”

Her voice low, she repeated, “Randy. He’s here.” Jess glanced over her shoulder again. “Should be behind the shed.”

“It’s too dangerous … Jess. You need to go. Now.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

Footsteps behind her.

“Visiting hours is up,” Sammy said. Gills stood beside him, inked arms folded.

Jess eyed David, her features tense, gave a barely perceptible nod.

We’ll get out of this. Don’t worry.

His face did not exude confidence.

“I said visiting hours was up.” He laid a gruff hand on her shoulder, and she sprung to her feet, spinning, slapping his arm away.

“
Don’t touch me.
”
 

“Oh,” he lilted, the inflection of the word rising and falling like a rocky roller coaster. “Well, well, well. Mitch was right about you. You
are
a feisty one.” Sammy smiled his random-toothed smile while nudging Guillermo with his elbow. He licked his lips, then spit snuff.
 

Jessica fumed, her cheeks suffused with scarlet tinged anger. “And just where
is
my husband?” she said, more statement than a question.

Sammy’s smile slanted, and he twisted, glancing at Guillermo, then turned back to Jessica. “He, uh, had an errand to run.”

Very slowly, very deliberately, she said, “Where … is … he?” Her lips twisted into a knot, arms crossed tight. “Did
you
kill him?” She pointed to Gills. “Or was it
you
?”

“Whoa, now. We ain’t killers. We’re
collectors
. Killing ain’t our business.”

“Then where is he?”

“You wanna see Mitch?”

“Yes, I do.”

Sammy shrugged. “Okay.” He turned, started to walk away.

Jess stood there, unmoving.

After about ten paces, Sammy turned. “Well, you coming or not?”

She glanced at David, and he sighed a wheezy breath, barely shaking his head.

Gills leaned over, grabbed David by the arm. “Let’s go, puto.”

Pain streaked across David’s face as Gills dragged him to his feet.

Sammy smiled. “Yeah. Let’s all go see Mitch.”

The evening was turning into a beautiful one. Enchanting, even. Another cloudless, star-filled night would soon grace the southern sky. Already, the crickets and cicadas and frogs were finishing one another’s sentences in song while the pines propped up the heavens for all to enjoy. And Tom Mackey would do just that from the comfort of his cedar deck. He would relax and rest tonight, for tomorrow would be a big day. A big day, indeed.

He couldn’t help but feel nostalgia, that wonderful feeling of what once was. Only a month ago, he and Kate had shared a moment like this, right here. They loved the summer and these perfect evenings—the sights, the sounds, the scents. This was the first summer he’d ever been alone. Since he’d met the love of his life, anyway.

Home sweet home no more, and as he swooned over the memories of his own ravishing wife, another woman graced his humble abode. A married woman. A woman he would kill very soon, if Karma proved correct. He trusted it, lived it. Believed it. Yes, it would happen. But then, he’d trusted and believed he’d find his beloved Kate in time to save her, and that didn’t happen. He’d be sure this would come to pass, though.

He leaned on the cedar railing that surrounded his back deck. Many years ago, he’d built their home on a hill, overlooking gorgeous forest, nearly level with the tree tops. He and his wife often delighted in dinner on this very deck, sipping wine or whiskey afterward, whichever suited their moods at the time.
 

He sipped whiskey now, because he was in a whiskey mood. A whiskey frame of mind. The beverage was tepid, which suited him just fine. He preferred his whiskey neat, with just a dash of mineral water. No ice for him. Cubes weren’t an option, anyway. He loved the smell, the purity, and it blended nicely with the pines and honey suckles. Ice cubes ruined the experience, in his opinion. If the end of the world meant no more ice, so be it. He wouldn’t miss them. But he’d miss his whiskey.

He pinched the brim of his hat, readjusting it, breaking the seal the heat of the day had made. Then he brushed the arms of his leather duster. Sure it was hot. Sure it was uncomfortable. And heavy. But he was alive. His coat was a suit of armor. He even slept in the damn thing. And not one biter had broken skin. Not once.

He spilled another satisfying splash over his lips to his thankful taste buds. Despite the disaster with Sammy and Guillermo, he managed a smile. The world was fucked, as he saw it, and to have a mission, a purpose, would keep him going to the end. He only worried about what he would do when he’d exacted his revenge. When it was all over and done with. He could go for hire, he supposed.

But a vendetta sans personal stakes? Without commitment of the soul? No such thing, no such animal. He just couldn’t see it working. Passion drove a man in the pursuit of vengeance. No, once he had punished those who’d taken his Kate, he would retire. Whatever that entailed. He’d be busy for a while, though. Plenty of folks to track down. Plenty punishment to pursue and procure. No, he would be at it for a while yet.

Kill her now, Doc. Do it now. For me.

In due time, dahlin’. In due time.

But what are you waiting for?

I want him to suffer like I suffered.

He will, Doc. He will. When you kill her, he will suffer.

Tom twisted the black matte blade, and it caught no light. The knife had belonged to David, the man whose wife now sat tied to a chair just inside the doorway to the deck. Tom touched the tip with his finger, then ran the pad along the blade, testing its edge. It didn’t need a razor’s sharpness, though. It would be plenty effective for what he had planned.

Stabbing the deck railing, he picked up his glass, swirled it, then tossed back the rest of the whiskey. He shook his head, a quick shake, then set the glass on the rail next to the imbedded blade.

Finish her, Doc. For me. Then you’re free. Free to kill him. He’ll be next. Then you can kill
them.

But he’s probably already dead, dahlin’.
 

He reached into his coat, found the Camels he’d scored at Bug-B-Gone, and shook the pack until one of the filters popped through the foil. He snatched it with his teeth, then replaced the pack to his coat while spinning to face Mrs. Morris, who was behind the window of the door, just inside his home.

She could barely move. He’d tied her exceptionally tight. No missteps tonight. No chance for Mrs. Morris to get off this merry-go-round of revenge. He’d made the mistake of trusting Sammy and his buddy Guillermo. Never again. He should have stuck with Plan ‘A’ and never looked back. That’s what he got for trying to be romantically clever in retribution, for striving to be …
epic
.

No, his style of retaliation would be perfunctory and mechanical in execution. Oh, he’d savor the moments, of course. He had to. Otherwise, what was the point? He was still alive, still …
felt
. But he would not dillydally. He would not hand out slips of mercy. Only pink slips.
 

I’m sorry, Mr. Morris. You’ve been fired from life. Don’t bother cleaning out your desk. Now, come with me. Let’s finalize your paperwork …

He would not trust. He would not give. He would take and take and take, until nothing remained but the remains of those who’d taken from him.

And there would be no more games. No more chances. He’d done right by Mitch, killing him where he stood. It was the right way, the proper way. The only way. Those who had wronged him would go to their graves in speedy fashion, and they’d go knowing why. He would make sure of that.

He sucked in a fiery breath, feeling it, relishing it, because he was alive. And he
could
.

Do it, Doc. Tonight. For me. Please
.

And then, as he was relishing being alive, delighting in the simple act of
feeling
, he became overwhelmed, suddenly feeling
too
much. It happened in his chest, first. A tightness. Then his throat. Closing. His eyes. A tear. And then another. Another.

The salty wash overwhelmed his eyes, his cheeks, and dashed to the deck in damp little explosions of
feelings
. Every drop representing every emotion of the moment. He wanted them to stop, and he dragged his hand across his face. But more salty rivulets and rivers replaced them. His shoulders shook and he shut his eyes tight against this unwanted flood of
feelings
.

He wanted his Kate back. And he wanted her back
now
.
 

He hated this plague of death. He hated the monsters it created. He hated the people it left behind. He hated David. Hated Sammy. Gills. Hated the truck that ran over his wife just as much as the man who’d been behind the wheel. He hated the world. And he hated the goddamned tears with the same amount of passion that had brought them in the first place.

And now he seethed, fumed. Angry.

He tossed his cigarette to the deck, snuffing it with his boot heel. His chin and lip quivered, remnants of sadness fueling a new and improved anger.

That’s right, Doc! That’s it! That’s it!

Reaching behind him, he plucked the blade from the railing, gripped the handle until his knuckles turned white.

That’s it, Doc! You’ve got it!

His chest heaved with heavy breaths.

He snatched the glass from the railing, hurled it at the outside table where it exploded into a million useless shards.

Feel it, Doc! Feel it!

His breaths deepened, until they almost hurt. The deck shook, his steps heavy. The glass and wood-framed door struggled to stay on its hinges as he slung it open. More glass shattered, clinking in shiny, sparkling flinders to the cedar planks below.

She’s yours, Doc! Do what you have to do! Make it right!

Tom grabbed the chair, dragging it and the attached undead Mrs. Morris along the deck and back to the railing. His chest and shoulders heaved.

Do it, Tom! Do it! Kill her, Tom! Kill her now! I love you, Tom! Do it for me!

And another wet wave crashed over his cheeks in a flash flood of anger, and onto the writhing dead woman as he reared the knife, gripping it so tightly his hand had numbed.

His lips were tight and trembling, the world a darkening blur. But it didn’t matter.

With a guttural cry, he launched his arm, straight and true, as hard and fast as he could. Over and over and over again.

“Gills,” Sammy said, nodding toward an approaching shuffler.

Guillermo broke off from the group of four, drew his Bowie blade, strode up to the undead creature. With the precision and strength of a high performance piston, he rammed the steel straight into its eye socket, then twisted. There was a muffled crunching, then the dead man hissed like a scuba tank losing air underwater, dark crimson gushing from the gash. Gills yanked the blade back, flung off the excess fluid, then wiped it on his pants before sheathing the knife.

Sammy chuckled. “See that?” he said to no one in particular. “Blade’s so big it opened the back of its skull.” He made some sort of stabbing or slashing noise to emphasize his point.